


Close Encounter

by s_c_r_i_p_s_i



Category: Dead by Daylight (Video Game)
Genre: Frank Implied Narrator, Frottage, M/M, Near-miss Car Accident, POV Third Person, Partners in Crime, Present Tense, Shower Sex, r slur, unhealthy relationship
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-03-12
Updated: 2021-03-12
Packaged: 2021-03-19 02:42:28
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,453
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29992680
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/s_c_r_i_p_s_i/pseuds/s_c_r_i_p_s_i
Summary: “I don’t get it,” He tells Danny as the man walks out the bathroom, drying out his hair out with an awfully scratchy-looking motel towel. “...Why don’t you have a spare tire? Like a normal person?”Seemed oddly out of character for Mr… fucking prepared for everything.Danny pauses, before continuing to dab the towel at his hair. “I may have oversimplified - I have a spare, it simply doesn’t have any air.” Under his breath, he also mumbles, “Contrary to my other problem, which is a spare that’s full of it.
Relationships: Danny "Jed Olsen" Johnson | The Ghost Face/Frank Morrison
Comments: 9
Kudos: 49





	Close Encounter

**Author's Note:**

> AHHHH thank you so much for commissioning me, Devil!!! Working on one of my favorite ships is always a treat, thank you for the opportunity. 💖
> 
> Don’t put your feet on the dash, kids.

Life’s funny sometimes.

For example: riding co-pilot with one of the most prolific _active_ serial killers in America was probably the last place Frank ever expected himself to be, but some social worker _somewhere_ in Canada was probably cashing in on the bet of a lifetime. 

_“Why would I leave them behind for - for **this?** ”_

He’s thinking about it, again. The events that brought them here, him sitting with his ratty shoes kicked up on the dash as he stared out the window of Danny’s shitty old Studebaker, watching the rain slide down the glass as the world vaguely passed them by. 

_“Because you **like** this, Frank. Because you’re not like them, and you **know** it.”_

Danny didn’t… fit him, quite the way Legion did. It wasn’t the same. A lot quieter, for one thing - two lone wolves do not a pack make. But he was right. Legion hadn’t been… _Legion_ in a while. Or maybe he hadn’t been _him_ in a while. Either way. It was time to move on. 

“We should stop for the night,” He eventually points out, shifting in his seat and smacking away the tacky taste of sleep rotting away at his mouth. 

While he’s used to being the leader, it also seems like an obvious call to make. A loud crack of thunder in the background just punctuates his point. It’s really starting to pelt down out there, and long since dark; the clock in the car says half past midnight. 

It’s getting harder and harder to see what’s ahead of them.

His gaze lazily slides over, noting the way Danny’s fingers tighten around the steering wheel. 

Not even _he_ can control the weather, and doesn’t that just _rankle_ the guy. Danny’s a grade-A control freak, so the fact that he’s radiating awful, _dangerous_ energy doesn’t come as a surprise to Frank at all. 

Sarcastically, he thinks: oh _joy,_ what a _pleasure_ he’s going to be to ride with for the next couple of hours. 

But the truth is? He really is looking forward to it. 

Look - no one ever said what they have is _healthy._

If you were to dissect it - whatever they were - they sort of have an inverse relationship. They’re both so damn _tickled_ at the others’ stress and misfortune. Fed off it, even. If one was suffering, the other was pleased. If one was pleased, the other was suffering. 

And, well? Danny was rarely the one suffering. So Frank would say it was about damn time he got a taste of his own medicine. 

“No.” Is Danny’s obvious answer. “We’re on a timetable. I want out of Kansas tonight, and we’re already running behind.” 

Frank snorts - Jesus Christ, he could sound like such a _dad_ sometimes. He supposes this is Danny’s passive-aggressive way of pointing out - for the third time - that he spent way too much time picking out candy at the gas station. 

Well, he’s not sorry. Though those sour punch straws were probably why his mouth tasted like ass now. 

Calmly, Frank’s gaze slid back to the window, something snarky and _smug_ sitting on the tip of his tongue- which he rolled across a sharp canine, smirking before breathing in to speak, “Don’t say I didn’t-” 

_BANG._

The vehicle jerks and Frank all but shits his heart out as they swerve into the wrong lane. Ripping his feet off the dash, his hands fly out for anything he can grab to brace himself - headlights swallow his vision, and then… 

Then they’re sitting on the shoulder of the road, the blood rushing through his ears so loud it’s deafening. 

“What the fuck was that?” He can barely hear himself, but his throat is straining like he’s _screaming._

And yet he’s not sure he’s said anything at all, because Danny - Danny doesn’t answer - he’s just… sitting there. Hands still on the wheel. Staring straight ahead. Unanswering, expression… indecipherable as ever. 

Frank, however, wastes no time in throwing open the door and hurling himself out the vehicle - or trying to. Like an idiot, he forgets about the seatbelt and is promptly jerked back.

“Frank.” His voice is _dangerously_ low and well enunciated, even through all the static going off in Frank’s head. 

“What did I tell you about putting your feet on the dash?”

Frank’s not listening - he sort of half-pauses, but it takes a backseat to getting the fuck _out._ He’s too busy clawing at his restraints, snapping his seatbelt open so that he can clamber out into the rain. Immediately, he careens off-balance like he’d just disembarked a roller coaster the moment his feet touch the blessed ground, but he manages to tilt a whirl his way around, clumsily circling the vehicle in search of damage - or at least an _answer._

“Blowout.” He hears behind him. “Drivers side.” Pause. “What did I tell you about putting your feet on the dash?”

 _God,_ he doesn’t care. Frank rounds the corner and - sure enough there it is. The tire was blown out. Completely shredded. He stared it at, running his trembling fingers through his soaking hair in hysterical disbelief before looking around at all the fucking _nothingness_ around them. Nothing but black sky and highway.

“How’d you know?” 

“Because we swerved to the left.” Danny says like it's the most obvious thing in the world, before firmly moving back to his original question: “What did I tell you about putting your feet on the dash?” 

This time, as Frank stares at the tire, the question actually starts to sink in. What did he say about it? _Not_ to, obviously. Something about, what, was he raised in a barn? That he was getting dirt everywhere. ...That he didn’t want to scrub Frank off his nice leather seats when the airbag sent his knees flying into his skull. Holy _shit._ Emotion crawls up his throat, tears stinging at his sinuses. What the _fuck?_

He hears Danny’s car door shut behind him as he gets out. “Grab your things. I don’t have a spare.” The trunk clicks open. “We passed a motel a few miles back.” 

◆ ◆ ◆

It’s a long, miserable walk to the motel in the rain, but Frank spends most of it so-... so in his own goddamn head and in shock that he hardly notices the time going by. Danny’s unreadable the whole way there, and Frank doesn’t even begin to try and analyze the silence. He had his own fucking mortality to wrestle with.

Everything’s shit. And for what? Nothing actually _happened._ So why does he still feel so shaken up about the whole thing? Not like he’s never had a close call before. 

They’re both sopping wet by the time they get a room, Frank tossing his backpack and garbage bag full of shit _wherever._ His mud-caked shoes, too. 

Fuck, was he out of it. Not tired, exactly - he slept plenty in the car, he’s just… still shell-shocked or something. 

Things are awkward, and he doesn’t even know what’s wrong let alone how to fix it, so Frank barrels through it. Ignores it. Whatever’s up Danny’s ass is his own problem. 

“I don’t get it,” He tells Danny as the man walks out the bathroom, drying out his hair out with an awfully scratchy-looking motel towel. “...Why don’t you have a spare tire? Like a _normal_ person?” 

Seemed oddly out of character for Mr… fucking prepared for everything.

Danny pauses, before continuing to dab the towel at his hair. “I may have oversimplified - I _have_ a spare, it simply doesn’t have any air.” Under his breath, he also mumbles, “Contrary to my other problem, which is a spare that’s full of it.” 

What-... What the fuck was that supposed to mean?

“Whatever.” He’s not going to waste any brainpower on it. “I’m… going to go take a shower.” Frank wasn’t sure how he was going to end that sentence when he started it, but it was as good an idea as any. It was something to do, at least. 

“A little redundant, don’t you think?” Frank hears behind him, as he begins to walk away.

Was it? Sure, he was already wet, but he didn’t feel _clean._ He felt gross. Sticky - that was probably from his clothes sticking to him, but he just plain didn’t feel right. Maybe it wasn’t the solution, but it’s _a_ solution. 

Better than doing nothing and entertaining Danny’s awful fucking attitude a second longer. 

Once it gets going, the water, the heat - whatever it is, it feels _good._ Good enough that he finally starts to relax, until he hears the bathroom door open.

“Room for two?” 

“I thought it was redundant.” Frank grits out. He feels… _invaded_ upon - he left to get away and Danny didn’t so much as knock. Feels like not an ounce of his life is his own, anymore. And maybe that’s what he signed up for, but it’s not like he read the fucking terms and conditions.

Besides, he’s naked. Could he… not? 

Danny doesn’t answer - thank God for that - but after the wet _plop_ of soggy clothes hitting the tile floor, Frank feels him sliding in behind him. 

Agitation crawls up Frank’s spine until he’s just standing there, perfectly still, because it’s all he can do not to immediately lash out. He doesn’t know what this is - an apology? Un-fucking-likely. But he doesn’t like it, whatever it is. 

This isn’t something they _do._ Any of it. 

And it’s weird being naked together, like this. There was probably nothing the other hadn’t seen, but all at once? Nah. 

Not that Frank sees much of anything but the irritatingly cheery pink shower tile he’s glaring at in front of him, but he can _feel_ his presence behind him.

And then he _really_ feels him, as Danny gets closer and starts touching his shoulder, gliding his fingers up Frank’s bicep.

“Fuck. Off.”

There is a long pause, one that Frank knows well enough to know is pregnant with danger.

Whereas Frank’s all bark, Danny’s all bite, and without any real warning, Frank’s being spun around and pushed against the tile before he can even clock it. 

“What’s wrong, Frankie? Did you get a boo boo?” He asks, gaze roaming over Frank’s body as if to check. It’s _saccharinely_ hateful - Frank knows that voice, and it’s not Danny. 

“I said fuck off.” He didn’t invite Danny, and he _certainly_ didn’t invite **him.**

“Ohhh,” The man breathes in dramatic, _delighted_ realization. “You’ve got a _feelings_ boo boo. Don’t worry, _champ,”_ He gently cuffs Franks chin with a knuckle, and Frank nearly punches him across the face, “I-”

“Shove it up your ass, Danny.” He’s done reeling himself in for this psycho, biting his tongue. “It’s not _my_ fault you’re too retarded to say you care.” The words are just bubbling out of him like water boiling over out of a pot; without thought, without filter. “That’s what this is, right?” 

Actually, he might be onto something. 

Frank pushes back, gets up in his face. “You were fucking _scared._ Admit it.” 

Like lovers swapping spit, they’re just trading the exact same glob of condescending venom back and forth - it’s stupid, it’s _so_ goddamn stupid; he feels like they’re shouting _‘I know you are, but what am I!’_ at each other, but he can’t seem to stop. 

“And you’re so pissed, oh **man** does it grate you that you actually fucking care. So you - what, take it out on me, huh?” 

Dead. Silence. 

Despite every warning not to, Frank takes a breath and trades venom for gravity. “I _told_ you we should stop for the-”

The next thing he knows, his face is being grabbed, thumb and fingers digging into the meat of his cheeks as Danny surges forward, mouth crashing into his.

And he’s beyond hope, despite the crescendo in his chest - Frank doesn’t have a single doubt in his mind; this is no passion-swept thing. It’s to shut him up. But whatever. He’s done talking too. He can just as easily fight with his tongue as with his breath. That’s fine.

And fight they do, underneath the water still tumbling down on them, hot and stupefying. But there’s no winner. No loser. It fizzles out almost as soon as it began into something strange and soft and foreign in every category except the breathless desperation. 

That, at least, is familiar. 

Danny’s cock ruts up against Frank’s, and Frank wastes no time in grabbing them both up in one hand to stroke them together, smirking against Danny’s lips and feeling a stupid, mushy sense of pride at the sound it pulls out of the man. 

Hand lowering to loosely cup around Frank’s throat, Danny’s mouth wanders, nipping and pressing kisses to his neck that have an inaudible whine closing off his throat at how heightened and _sensitive_ everything feels. 

It’s dizzying; he doesn’t know how they got here, but he’s never felt so raw and tender before. Feels a bit like he’s an exposed bruise; almost _hurts_ to be touched, but he gets some kind of masochistic thrill out of it anyway. 

He doesn’t want it to _stop,_ and he catches himself trying to lift to the balls of his feet as Danny pulls his mouth off of him, trying to chase the feeling.

“Your hair’s so fucking orange when it’s wet,” Danny breathes against his neck, “Haven’t you ever heard of toner?” 

Frank’s rhythm falters. “Shut the fuck up.” It tumbles out of him in a huff, the corner of his lip cocked despite himself - because it’s the worst dirty talk he’s ever heard, and yet it does absolutely nothing to lessen the pleasure cresting in the pit of his stomach. That’s how _disgustingly_ fond he was.

Besides. It sounded a whole lot like ‘I’m sorry’ in psycho. 

“You gonna keep the feet off the dash?” Danny’s panting the words into his neck like he’s asking if Frank is going to cum. Or… a _condition_ for him to cum. 

Frank’s eyes narrow.

“Danny, I’ve got your dick in my hand, do you really think you’re in any position to-”

Danny chases his hand away, intertwining their fingers and slamming them against the tile. Looks him dead in the eyes. “You gonna keep your feet off the dash?” 

Holy fuck, he has the _stupidest_ way of showing he cares. “Fine, fine, fuck!” Frank relents. 

If he can remember, _sure._ Then again. He’s sure Danny won’t let him forget. 

Danny’s other arm shoots forward, and with a twist of the dial, the water cuts off. Just like that, they’re both standing there like drowned, horny rats. 

But the smile that spreads across Danny’s face - that’s pure wolf. 

He utters one word:

“Bed.”

And Frank’s not going to argue with that. 

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you for reading!!! 🖤
> 
> Please comment if you enjoyed; I am but a simple goblin who thrives on external motivation.
> 
> You can find my socials on my [carrd!](https://venividiscripsi.carrd.co/) Follow me on Twitter!
> 
> Or, join the 18+ DBD thirst server 🔞 Dead by Baelight 🔞 [here!](https://discord.gg/42MXETK)


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